


The Coat

by estychan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Unresolved Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estychan/pseuds/estychan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock jumps from the roof of St. Bart's, John finds it hard to let go of the one thing Sherlock always had with him: his Belstaff coat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weavile](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=weavile).



> I saw some really sad fanart of John on Tumblr today and I really wanted to write a little fanfic based on it. The fanart in question can be found here at it's original source on Tumblr: <http://weavile.tumblr.com/post/15865218033/let-him-have-the-coat-officer-but-detective>
> 
> Please feel free to comment on this! I enjoy seeing what others think of my work. <3

_No… No…_

Numb. That was the best word to describe how John Watson felt. The rain drizzled steadily over London, falling upon with pavement with a gentle _pitter patter_ and forming puddles in the cracks of the stone sidewalk. John was still kneeling on the sidewalk, still staring at the ghastly splash of red that was steadily being washed away by the rain. The red sluiced through the rainwater like shiny crimson snakes, some of it washing toward John and soaking into the knees of his jeans.

It was drizzling just enough to hide the steady stream of tears on the doctor’s haggard, pale face. He quickly lost track of the time, of how long he knelt there amidst Sherlock’s spilled blood on the street in front of Bart’s. He was dimly aware of sirens growing louder and louder, signaling the arrival of the police. Out of one of the cars came Lestrade, who sprinted quickly over to John and paused at the sight of that puddle of red in front of him. His chest constricted painfully at the knowledge that Sherlock had previously lain there and he set a hand on John’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. He could feel the man trembling under his touch.

“John,” Lestrade said quietly, frowning. “Come on, let’s go inside… Tell me what happened.”

John slowly looked up at Lestrade, his eyes wide with shock and wet with grief. For a couple of minutes, he just looked at him silently, not truly seeing him. All he could see in his mind’s eye was Sherlock lying on his side in front of him, unmoving and pale with the startling contrast of blood trailing over his skin. “He’s…” He swallowed heavily, the act of doing so made painful by the lump that refused to dissipate. “He’s dead… Lestrade, Sherlock is… He’s dead.”

Lestrade’s expression became a bit pinched with pain at the rawness of John’s words and he helped the man to his feet, leading him into Bart’s and standing with him just inside the door.

“Tell me what happened,” he said again. “Take your time. I… I know how hard this must be for you.”

 John choked out a short, mirthless laugh, bringing a hand up to wipe at his eyes.

_No, Lestrade. You have no idea… You have no clue just how much this is killing me._

After a few minutes of silence, John finally told Lestrade everything that had occurred leading up to Sherlock’s jump. He told him about Kitty Riley, Moriarty’s invention of Richard Brook, his attempts to tarnish Sherlock’s reputation in the eyes of everyone who knew him. He told him about the phone call; the tears he had heard in the great detective’s voice. He told him about how he saw him fall and how the next thing he knew was the sight of Sherlock bleeding on the pavement, lifeless and cold. John’s tears were silent during his explanation, but that only made them that much worse for Lestrade to see.

Lestrade pulled John into a firm hug and murmured how sorry he was before reluctantly pulling away and walking to the mortuary. He needed to see the body. It was partly for his own benefit, to ensure that this wasn’t all just a terrible nightmare they would all wake up from, but mostly it was because he needed to. John was left in the lobby of Bart’s to collect himself, and a few medical personnel came over to make sure he was alright. They put a shock blanket around him; he shrugged it off and told them he was fine. They didn’t believe him, but eventually they left him to his own devices.

“John.” He looked up, seeing Sally and Anderson, who had just entered the hospital. He glared at them hatefully, hands clenched into fists as he got to his feet. They had never believed in Sherlock. Never. Because of them, Moriarty’s plan to shatter Sherlock’s reputation moved more smoothly for the criminal mastermind, and he would never forgive them. As far as he was concerned, the regret in their eyes was entirely false; a ruse to make themselves look good. He wasn’t having it.

Sally opened her mouth to speak again. “I’m so—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” John hissed vehemently. “I know you didn’t believe in him. You never did, ever since I first met you. Both of you. You always called him a psychopath, but guess what? He was my _friend_ , and sure he was a pain in the arse most of the time, but you know what? At least I tried to understand him. I was there for him, always, and the one time I wasn’t, he…” He choked out a sob and looked away, lip quivering with grief and anger.

“Just… leave me alone.”

He walked away from them and blindly headed in the direction of the mortuary, where he had helped Sherlock examine so many bodies during cases in an attempt to find the solution. He quietly entered and watched as Lestrade grimly examined the body on the table that was undoubtedly Sherlock. Molly was holding a cloth, having just been about to clean the blood from the body when Lestrade entered. Grief etched into every line on the detective inspector’s face, he gave a curt nod and looked away just in time to see John standing there. Molly looked crestfallen, tears staining her normally rosy cheeks that were now so pale.

John couldn’t bring himself to look at the body. He simply glanced around the mortuary, noting that Molly had hung Sherlock’s coat up after removing it from his body. He walked over to it and carefully lifted it off the hook, holding the familiar wool garment in his hands and staring at it. There was some blood on it, but only a little spot near the collar.

_Sherlock_ …

He held the Belstaff coat tightly to his chest and inhaled shakily before turning on his heel and bolting out of the mortuary with it. He vaguely registered Lestrade calling after him, but he paid no attention to it, tears streaming down his cheeks. He ran past a very shocked Sally and Anderson and out into the rain, falling to his knees with the coat and burying his face in it. One of the other officers who had seen him run out with the coat walked up to him and wrenched it from his grasp, frowning down at him.

“Give it back!” cried John, reaching out to snatch it but the officer held it out of his reach.

“Sorry, mate,” said the young man. “It’s evidence. We need to—”

“Mills, hand it over.” Lestrade’s gruff voice came from behind John as he came out of Bart’s and walked up to them, a sad smile on his face. He held his hands out to the officer expectantly and the coat was handed over to him, the young man unwilling to disobey a direct order from his superior. Lestrade looked at the coat thoughtfully for a minute before turning his attention to the distraught, trembling doctor.

“Lestrade, please...” The words were practically a sob.

The detective inspector wasn’t stupid. John’s feelings for Sherlock had gone way beyond platonic friendship months ago, and even though the doctor wasn’t admitting it, this little stunt of his was enough of a clue. Keeping this beloved possession of Sherlock’s from him would be far too cruel. With that, he draped the coat over John’s shoulders as though to shield him from the rain and moved away.

“Take good care of it, John. You know how much he loved that coat.”

John simply nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched the coat tightly around him and turned away from the police. He walked a short distance from them before his legs gave out from under him in despair and he fell to his knees.

_Damn it, Sherlock… How could you? HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME LIKE THIS?!_

He covered his face with both hands and his body was wracked with bitter sobs. The Belstaff coat was a comforting weight on his shoulders, in a way. It was almost as though Sherlock were still there with him in a sense, his arms wrapped around him and his lips close to his ear, telling him everything was going to be alright.

It was a pretty thought; a pretty lie.

A few yards away, the young police officer looked at Lestrade with confusion.

“Sir, he really can’t keep that. It’s…”

“Let him have the coat, officer.”

“But detective inspector, it’s evid—”

Lestrade fixed the young man with a thoroughly saddened gaze, effectively silencing him. He forced a small smile, glancing over at the distraught doctor pouring his heart out on his knees in the form of tears. His next statement was a decisive one with an implied challenge to anyone who dared refute it.

“He’s been through enough.”


End file.
